Heroic
by Rattlesnake Smile
Summary: In recent days, a seemingly random group of individuals has emerged with what can only be described as "special" abilities. Although unaware of it now, these individuals will not only save the world, but change it forever. This transformation from ordinary to extraordinary will not occur overnight. Every story has a beginning. Their epic tale begins here...
1. Meant For Something Greater

_So, as not to be too confusing with my stories, I've decided to just have one where it's everybody's journey instead of the individual ones. What this is, is just the chapters from my other stories in this universe compiled into one story for people who don't feel like jumping back and forth all the time. Also, I want to leave a message here in the beginning for everybody who reads my stuff._

_"I know that some folks love telling creative people that "you should be doing it for fun because you love it not for the compliments" but creative people thrive on feedback whether it's critical or just complimentary. S__o when I write fanfiction and don't get any actual feedback I feel like I spent all that time and energy doing it for nothing because i'm not getting feedback from the people i wrote it for. D__oing something you're proud of and then presenting it to the sound of utter silence is like the worst feeling on earth."_

_I got that from Tumblr, one of the blogs I follow reblogged it and I felt that this truly summed up how I and most writers feel when we don't get any feedback. I spend, literally days, sometimes weeks on these stories and I get nothing most of the time. It's infuriating and almost makes one want to give in the towel and just stop posting stuff. Understand, also, I don't just want a "Hey, this is awesome." or a "Please Update." I would like some actual feedback, letting me know what you liked and what you hated about it. Perhaps what I could do to make it better. Especially when you factor in that most of the people that read these things, don't actually write fanfictions of their own. You can take two minutes to tell me what you thought of my stuff. Also, think about it. This is free, meaning you don't pay anything to read our stories on this website. We're providing a service, the least you could do is give us some feedback. _

_And thus concludes my rant._

* * *

**Meant For Something Greater**

Scott McCall was flying. It was an experience unlike any other, to be aloft in the sky with nothing holding you up but whatever was allowing him to fly in the first place. No wings. No wires. No jet-packs. Just floating through the sky, weaving in and out of the glass and steel mountains of San Fransisco. Past the glint of steel lay the vastness of ocean, tranquil and eternal, the morning fog rolling inward and covering the bay. It was freedom, pure and simple. It was the best Scott felt in a long, long time, but like all good things, it must come to an end. The once pristine blue sky darkened with black, pendulous clouds. The wind picked up, forcing Scott to fight harder to keep his altitude. Then lightning flashed and -

Scott sat up immediately in his chair as he came crashing back to reality, the sound of the bedroom door slamming open startling him from his dream. He straightened his posture and stretched before sitting up fully in the incredibly comfortable leather armchair by his patient's bed before turning those big brown eyes to see who had disturbed his rest. Standing in the door, impressive arms crossed over an equally impressive chest was a tall muscular man who seriously looked like he was going for a Wolverine-meets-the Wolfman look. Dark scruff covered his cheeks and chin while heavy black eyebrows arched over pale green eyes that seemed to see more sharply than they were supposed to. Poking out of the open collar of his worn-out Henley was more dark hair.

Derek Hale. The son of his current patient, Talia, and a guy who instantly seemed to hate Scott's very presence the moment he had come to take care of his dying mother. Logically, Scott understood why. He was a hospice nurse. His being here meant Talia really was dying. Scott knew that if his and Derek's roles were reversed and it was his own mother in that bed, he would be constantly angry as well, though Talia assured him that angry was Derek's default setting. Even still, his feelings were a little hurt every time Derek turned that scowl his way.

"Were you sleeping?" His voice was deep and gruff, like thunder and full of accusation.

"I was napping." Scott corrected, yawning before he folded up the newspaper he'd been reading before he fell asleep and standing up to wake his legs.

"Oh, leave him alone, Derek." Talia murmured sleepily from where she sat in the large, opulent bed propped up by more pillows than Scott had in his entire apartment. "His replacement had a family emergency last night and Scott offered to stay." She scolded her son with a motherly smile. "He's allowed a ten minute nap."

"But what if something had happened during those ten minutes?" He argued.

"But nothing did." Talia argued back.

"But what if something had?" Derek repeated again, all but stomping his foot, causing his mother to roll her eyes and smile in Scott's direction. To hide his own smile from the other male, Scott turned to fiddle with Talia's IV fluids, changing one of the empty bags.

"I'm _fine_, Derek." Talia stated firmly. "Stop your mothering, that's my job." She brought a tissue to her mouth and coughed a few times before pulling her hand away, the white cloth stained black. Scott frowned and Derek's scowl deepened, but Talia ignored them both and simply tossed the soiled tissue into the waste basket beside her bed. "Besides, I'm hooked up to this army of machines." She gestured to the numerous IVs and tubes running from her frail and weakened body to the expensive medical equipment set up around her bed. "I'm sure something would have gone off as if the Nazis were invading if anything had happened. Plus, this place is crawling with people. Someone checks on me ever five minutes." She cast a knowing glance at her son. She opened her mouth to say something else but was interrupted another coughing fit. Both Derek and Scott were at her side in an instant, Derek not touching her because he wasn't sure what to do, and Scott grabbing another tissue and holding it before her mouth to catch pitch-colored fluids, his other hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. Derek's gaze snapped to where Scott's hand rested on Talia's back, noting the darkening of his veins and the confused yet slightly pained expression on the nurse's face.

Once the coughing ceased, Scott tossed the tissue into the trash before sliding off the bed and heading for the bathroom to wash and sterilize his hands. He returned moments later, latex gloves on and a stethoscope around his neck. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of Talia laying weakly against her mountain of pillows and Derek kneeling at the edge of the bed, clasping one of his mother's hands between both of his, his head bowed.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, Scott sat on the edge and took Talia's pulse on the wrist of her free hand. His touch startled her and she rolled her head against the pillows to look over at her nurse.

"Can you sit up?" Scott asked gently. "Or would you like some help?"

"Do I have too?" Talia scowled and Scott almost laughed at how much her and Derek looked alike when they did that.

"You know the routine." Scott smiled sweetly.

"Fine, fine." Talia grimaced as she attempted to sit up on her own. "Help and old lady up, would you?"

"I will, the moment I see one." Scott joked even as he helped her sit up, Derek assisting silently and unasked on her other side. He looked over and met Derek's eyes. "I need you to keep her supported for me." The older male nodded as Scott leaned her forward slightly, taking his stethoscope and placing the listening ends in his ears before breathing on the other end to warm up the cold metal. Parting the back of her night gown, Scott placed the metal disk on her bare skin and told her to take a deep breath. She was barely finished before he moved to another spot and had her repeat the process.

Once he was all done, he and Derek reclined her back onto her pillows. Scott stepped away to give mother and son a brief moment of privacy.

"Any news on your sister?" Scott overheard Talia ask while he was busy writing in the medical log about her latest coughing fit as well as recording her vitals.

"We've tracked her progress south." Derek answered, his voice a soft whisper. "She was spotted in Central America yesterday." He leaned in closer. "I was coming to tell you that I'll be leaving immediately to retrieve her."

"Wait a day." Talia informed him. "Tonight's the benefit for Ms. Martin's bid for Congress. I can't make it so I'ld like you to go in my stead."

"Ma, I..." Derek started.

"Don't you 'Ma' me." some of her inner steel returned to her voice. "Cora's been on her own for months. She's my baby but she'll be able to handle herself another day." She sighed, looking older than she had ten minutes ago. "Someone from the Hale family must attend the benefit for Lydia Martin. We're the only two left who can and I can't. You're going and that's final."

"Yes ma'am." Derek sighed in defeat, his ears twitching as he heard Scott attempt to stifle his chuckle.

"I don't know why you're so upset of this." Talia waved her hand idly. "You look dashing in a tux." She turned her gaze toward her caretaker. "Don't you think Derek looks dashing in a tux?" Derek's scowl turned in the younger man's direction.

"I - uh -well-" Scott sputtered, trying to fight the blush rising in his darker skin as well as ignore the knowing smirk his patient was sending his way. "I've never actually seen Derek in a tux." He finally managed to spit out. "But I'm sure he would look very handsome." There was no perceptive change in Derek's facial expression at the compliment and unless one were looking really, _really _closely, they wouldn't notice the faintest of blushes coloring his cheeks. Scott, however, did notice, but kept that to himself.

"I'll go get ready then." Derek said, standing up to his full height. "I'll go to the benefit but first thing in the morning I'm going after Cora." His eyes flickered briefly in Scott's direction. "I'll stop by before my flight." With that, he leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek before sweeping out of the bedroom. No, he literally swept. Scott was sure that if he'd had a cape, he would have swished it like Batman. Snorting at the thought, Scott turned to Talia.

"So, what are we going to do until my replacement gets here?" He asked, diverting her attention from where she was staring intently at something out on the terrace. Looking over, he didn't see anything there so he just assumed she had been lost in thought. When he turned back, Talia was looking at him intently, as if waiting for him to elaborate. "Movie or book?"

"Movie." Talia answered. "I'm tired. Don't really feel like thinking too much."

"Great." Scott said, beaming his sunny smile. "Let's see what's on Netflix." He took the remote from Talia's bedside table and sat down in the same armchair he'd vacated earlier, turning on the television and proceeding to browse through the near-infinite list of available titles.

**- MEANT FOR SOMETHING GREATER -**

Scott stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel firmly around his waist and walked toward the sink and mirror on the opposite side of his small bathroom. Wiping the fog from the mirror, Scott stared at his reflection, his hair slicked back with moisture. Opening the cabinet behind the mirror, Scott pulled out his toothbrush and toothpaste and proceeded to go through his post-shower routine, his mind elsewhere.

After his replacement had shown up, Scott had informed them of everything he was required to and proceeded home for a well-deserved rest. Well, more of a nap, really. What he had failed to mention to the Hales was that he too would be attending Lydia Martin's benefit, having received a personal invitation from the Congressional hopeful herself. Scott was surprised when he'd received it. He honestly didn't think Lydia even remembered him that much from high school, but obviously she did. So, here he was, his only suit hanging on his closet door, fresh from the dry-cleaners while Scott made sure he was presentable enough to be in the same room with a bunch of political animals.

And that itself had been an adventure. First they couldn't find his suit, then they almost charged him double and to top it all off, he'd almost been run down by a creepy, thin man and an Asian girl who looked like she'd gotten lost on a way to an anime convention. It made for an interesting afternoon, to say the least.

With his teeth brushed, deodorant on and hair gelled back, Scott stepped out of his bathroom and into his bedroom, unknotting his towel and letting the cool air caress his damp skin. He had just finished pulling on boxer-briefs that maximized all of his... "assets" as opposed to his usual boxers when his open laptop chirped from the desk. Looking over, he saw that he was getting a Skype call. Walking over to his desk, he accepted the call and was rewarded with a full screen image of his high school best friend, Stiles.

"Gaaah!" Stiles exclaimed dramatically upon seeing his good friend standing there in his boxer-briefs. "Warn a guy before you flash your junk at him."

"Hey, unlike some people I at least put on underwear." Scott chuckled, digging back at his friend.

"I thought we agreed not to mention that." Stiles said in a stage whisper.

"Oh, so he flashed you too?" A feminine voice said over the speaker. Appearing over Stiles' shoulder was another friend from high school, her long brown hair in careless curls.

"Hey, Malia." Scott called over his shoulder as he moved toward his closet door, unzipping the bag and pulling out the suit.

"Hey, Scott." Malia said back, her dark eyes roaming over Scott's nearly nude form through the computer screen. "No rush to get dressed. I don't mind." Her full lips curved upward in a smile. Scott laughed as he pulled on his slacks, moving back to his closet to pull out a belt, which slid easily and smoothly through the loops.

"Where are you heading?" Stiles asked, leaning back in his chair and letting Malia lean in to stare appreciatively at Scott's athletic form.

"Lydia's political thing." Scott answered, pulling a freshly pressed white dress shirt from his closet and pulling it on, clasping the cuff links before moving to button up the shirt itself.

"I'm surprised she even remembered you." Stiles remarked, munching on a bag of Doritos.

"Me too." Scott admitted, a tie now around his neck and being tied. "But I got a personal invitation in the mail." Once he had successfully knotted his tie, He tucked in his shirt the whole way around before brushing his hands down his torso, pushing out any wrinkles. "Of course, it could be some stupid joke from Jackson."

"Ugh, is she still with him?" Stiles wrinkled his nose, earning a snort from Malia. "She could do so much better." He popped another chip in his mouth and munched noisily.

"You mean you?" Scott asked, smirk on his handsome face.

"Oh, I gave up on that a while ago." Stiles joked back.

"Really, because I remember back when you were dead set on being Lydia's second husband." Scott reminded him, pulling out socks from his dresser and the dress shoes from his closet.

"Second husband?" Malia asked from the background where she was lounging on Stiles' bed. "What happened to her first husband?"

"Nothing you can prove." Stiles and Scott said in unison, breaking out into laughter at Stiles' old joke.

"So, if you think it might be a joke by Jackson, why are you going?" Malia asked, returning to hover behind Stiles and reaching over his shoulder to grab a Dorito from the bag. Scott took a bit too long to reply and Stiles' face split into an overly cheerful smile as he nodded knowingly.

"Ah. _He's _going to be there." Stiles said, smirking at the blush that spread across Scott's face.

"Who's _he_?" Malia asked, grabbing another chip.

"_Derek Hale_." Stiles said in an exaggerated, breathy sigh. "'The hunkiest hunk with his big chest and scruff. Oh, that scruff.'" Stiles threw Scott's words from one of their earlier Skype calls back at him. Scott blushed even further, turning away from the camera while Stiles laughed.

"How hunky are we talking here?" Malia asked, shoving Stiles out of the way.

"Oh, the hunkiest!" Stiles laughed from where ever he'd fallen on the floor.

"I'm not even sure if he likes me." Scott said, shrugging on his suit jacket and buttoning it up before smoothing it down. "How do I look?" He asked, spreading his arms and stepping back so his friends could see the full picture.

"Like you want to get laid." Stiles said as his head peeked up from the floor, his eyes barely in the screen. He disappeared from the screen when Malia shoved him again, taking his seat before the computer.

"You look very handsome Scott." Malia responded honestly.

"Thank you, Malia." Scott smiled in return. Taking a deep breath, Scott picked up his invitation and placed it in his suit pocket before grabbing his wallet and keys. "Well, I got to get going. I'll talk to you guys later."

"Wear a condom!" Stiles called out, trying to contain his laughter.

"Goodbye, Stiles." Scott said simply, reaching over with a smile to turn off his computer.

**- MEANT FOR SOMETHING GREATER -**

Why did he come to this, anyway?

A lot of stuffy older people in suits, talking about complex political situations and sipping champagne while gossiping about the other attendees. Scott stood off to the side, not wanting to interrupt Lydia but wanting to at least say hello before he took off. The entire time Scott stood there with his flute of champagne, eyes darting back and forth, searching. At one point he made eye contact with a young girl who stood at her mother's side, and who looked suspiciously like the girl who had almost run him down earlier today. She smiled at him when they made eye contact and she made to come over to his corner when her mother pulled her into the conversation, saving Scott from an awkward conversation.

Off in the center of the room stood Lydia, looking stunning with her red hair pulled up in an elegant bun and wearing a slinky black number that somehow still managed to be conservative. Further toward the wall, speaking with a gaggle of young women who were practically fawning over him, was Jackson. Still as handsome as he was in high school, and still a snazzy dresser. And by the looks of it, still an arrogant douche bag as well.

"Looking for someone in particular?" A gruff voice said from his left. Turning, he saw Derek coming toward him, in a perfectly fitted black tux. Talia was right: he did look dashing. It was kind of a pity that he'd shaved, but the clean look really brought out the green of his eyes.

"Not really." Scott smiled back.

"I didn't know you were going to be here." Derek took up a spot on the wall next to his mother's nurse. "Why didn't you say you were gonna be here?"

"Well, I wasn't even entirely sure I was going to come at all." Scott admitted.

"So, why did you?"

"To show my support." Scott answered. "Lydia's an old friend from high school. We used to joke that one day she would rule the world, so I'm here to wish her good luck." Derek snorted and Scott saw an honest-to-goodness smile blossom on his face. Smiling himself, Scott took a sip of his champagne before continuing. "Trust me, if anyone could take over the world, it would be her."

"Who is this, now?" Scott looked up and saw that Lydia had made her way over to him, her own flute of champagne in her perfectly manicured hand.

"You." Scott replied. "We were just toasting to your successful run of benevolent dictatorship." Scott raised his glass, and after a chuckle Derek followed suit. Smirking, Lydia raised her own glass to clink against theirs before the three took a sip.

"I'm glad you came." Lydia said after her sip. "It's nice to see a familiar face besides Jackson. Also, it's nice to see someone below the age of fifty." Scott and Lydia laughed at her joke.

"How did you even know to invite me?" Scott asked after a minute or two. "I mean, you don't have me followed so that you know where I am at all times right? How else would you know I lived in the district you're running for?"

"Talia Hale." Lydia answered, simple and to the point, raising her glass and nodding toward Derek. "She's one of my biggest campaign contributors. She told me how hard you've been working at taking care of her and she felt you could use a good night off." She turned toward Derek. "I'm very sorry that she couldn't attend this evening in person. She was a great person to have at parties."

"She's sorry she couldn't be here." Derek responded, reaching into his jacket. "But she did offer a sizable contribution to your campaign." He pulled out a folded check and held it out for Lydia, who took it and placed it in a miniscule black purse hanging from his shoulder.

"Tell her I said thank you." Lydia said. "And that I hope she feels better." She took another sip of her drink before sighing. "Well, I guess I have to go drum of a few more donations and such. Are you two going to stick around?" Her version of a knowing smirk was way more subtle than the one Stiles gave. Maybe she could give him some lessons.

"Unfortunately I have a flight first thing in the morning." Derek said. "So I'll make my rounds and talk to a few more people just in case they decide to stop by for a visit with my mother."

"Yeah, I'm probably going to go soon myself." Scott admitted. "I just wanted to say hi before I left." Scott put his now empty glass down on the table to his right. "And to let you know that you have my vote."

"Thank you, Scott." She leaned in and the two old friends kissed cheeks before she held out her hand to Derek, who took it and kissed he knuckles. "I'm glad you at least stayed for the speech."

"Oh, of course." Scott smiled. "You always were the best with public speaking."

"You two have fun." Lydia smiled and turned to talk to the mother and daughter Scott had seen earlier. Scott lingered for a moment or two more before he turned to say goodbye to Derek, who was no longer standing there. Looking around, Scott thought he spotted the back of his head and those broad shoulders talking to a few people but he wasn't really sure. Sighing in defeat, Scott slipped through his crowd toward the exit. Once he got outside, he regretted his decision to not drive here as the sky overhead rumbled dangerously, threatening a storm. Deciding he still had some time, he put his hands in his pockets and proceeded to walk down the street and away from the hotel the gala had been hosted in. Not even two blocks later, the sky finally made good on its promise and dropped buckets of water upon the city of San Fransisco, drenching Scott and his freshly cleaned suit.

Cursing, Scott decided he had no other choice but to march on, though he regretted that soon enough when even his underwear was soaked through. Another block later he heard, or he thought he heard a car engine roar behind him and someone possibly shout his name, but he could be sure over the pounding rain and the occasional crack of thunder. He took a few more steps when he felt a strong hand close around his bicep. Turning around, he ran smack into the very big, very solid chest of Derek Hale, who stood under a large umbrella. An umbrella that now covered Scott as well and allowed him to take a breath without drowning.

"Hey." Scott said stupidly after a minute.

"Hey." Derek replied, his voice soft in this little bubble they created beneath the umbrella. It was only then that Scott realized he was practically standing on Derek so he took a step back, ending up in the rain again. Rolling his eyes, Derek stepped forward to keep Scott under the umbrella's protection. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Scott replied. "Just didn't expect it to rain."

"You want a lift?" Derek offered, motioning with his free hand toward the sleek black Camaro parked along the street.

"Sure." Scott said but made no move to head toward the vehicle. He was almost entranced by the play of Derek's cheekbones now that it wasn't covered in stubble. And the green of his eyes were down right hypnotizing now, especially when contrasted against his heavy black eyebrows and the dark of the night around them, highlighted by the occasional flash of lightning.

"Scott?" Derek asked, watching the way Scott's brown eyes focused on Derek's lips. Without warning, Scott rushed forward and caught Derek's lips in a quick kiss. Not anything to elaborate, just two pairs of lips connecting. Scott pulled back almost immediately as his brain caught up with what he'd just done.

"I am so sorry." Scott apologized before looking down so Derek wouldn't see how red his face now was. "I should go." Scott turned to trudge through the rain again, only to be turned back around by Derek's strong hands and pulled into another kiss, this one a bit more thorough than the one previous. After a moment or two, both young men came up for air but didn't step back from each other, just shared their mutual space.

"Do you wanna come back to my place?" Derek asked. Scott opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of how to reply to that, or if he had a sophisticated way to reply when he eventually settled on just a nod. It was worth it when that bright smile split Derek's usually scowling face.

* * *

_I decided on the Scott/Derek pairing because I like rare pairings and because I absolutely refuse to do anything where Sterek happens. Don't want to even think about it. I get so sick of looking for a good story on here, only to be distracted because the main pairing is always Sterek. But I digress. Also, in the season 3B finale, Derek's speech to the twins... let's be honest. He totally has the world's biggest crush on Scott. Let me know what y'all think and see if you can guess any parallels aside from the obvious with Heroes_.


	2. Doppelgänger

**In The Mirror**

The strobe lights flashed and pulsed while the music thrummed through the multitude of bodies packed onto the dance floor. On various podiums dotted through the club, as well as in cages hanging from the ceiling, there were men dancing. Most of them were in skimpy underwear but some wore themed costumes, such as sailor or cowboy. You get the idea. A club filled with dancing male-model types and plenty of shirtless young hunks on the dance floor, as well as a few drag queens should enlighten you.

Welcome to The Jungle.

Ethan Correa danced to the beat, his body swaying back and forth, his muscles accentuated by the swirls and splashes of fluorescent pink paint. The paint and his white briefs glowed in the dim of the club, brought out by the ultraviolet lights set up in various locations. Moving down the bar, he squatted in front of a patron beckoning him and got a five-dollar-bill shoved into his briefs while a shot of vodka was raised to his lips. Downing the burning liquor, he smiled and gave the shot glass back before sliding down on his knees, allowing another customer to put some more money in his briefs. The entire time, even when he was smiling, those big brown eyes of his were scanning the faces of the club's patrons, searching for one person in particular.

This is pretty much how his night has gone. And the night before that. And the week before that. You get the idea. Most guys would have the time of their life dancing on a bar in their underwear, having other men shove money down their pants and buy them drinks. But to Ethan it was just a job. He had fun sometimes, but mostly it was just a way to pay bills and try to slowly climb out of debt. Especially on nights like this. He was just one of the gogo boys dancing around, not one of the main attractions on the stage that took up a nice chunk of the floor. The nights he actually got to put on a show were so much more satisfying than just shaking his groove thang on the bar. This wasn't Coyote Ugly.

An hour later saw Ethan in the changing room for the dancers, sitting before a mirror and wiping the glitter and guy-liner from his face, the body paint already taken care of, a stack of crumpled bills sitting before him.

"Good night?" Ethan looked over and saw another dancer, Jonas was his name, sitting down at his own little table and counting out his money.

"It was alright." Ethan responded, wiping the rest of the make-up and glitter away. "Pays the bills at least."

"I hear that." Jonas laughed as Ethan got up and grabbed his street clothes from the locker beneath his "work station." Shamelessly, as most of the dancers had seen each other nude plenty of times, Ethan stripped out of his work briefs and pulled on his more comfortable Calvin Klein boxer briefs, shortly followed by a pair of jeans worn so many times the denim was soft and comfortable. A white v-neck covered his bare torso before he sat back down to pull on his socks and sneakers. "You done for the night?" Jonas asked as he glanced over and saw Ethan getting dressed.

"Yeah." Ethan responded as he laced up his shoe. "Early night tonight and rehearsal tomorrow morning. I'm on the stage tomorrow night. Gotta get ready."

"Nice." Jonas nodded before going back to counting his money. Ethan stood up and slid on his leather jacket and placed his earnings for the night within the jacket's internal pocket. "See ya 'round." Jonas said, not looking up from his money as Ethan walked behind him toward the exit. Ethan, however, paused behind Jonas, having seen something in the mirror, like his reflection had paused a bit too long when he'd walked past. Frowning, Ethan gazed at his reflection for a second or two before continuing on his way.

"Later." Ethan commented absent-mindedly before descending the stairs to the dancer's entrance/exit. Wishing the bouncer good night, Ethan tuned down the alley and made his way through the streets of West Hollywood to his tiny apartment, ear-buds plugged in and the pulsing sounds of the Bloody Beetroots playing. Above him, as the clouds parted, one would be able to see the full moon looming over Los Angeles, bright and clear despite the hundreds of thousands of lights and the dense layer of smog. As Ethan walked, oblivious to the world around him, a shadow began to cross over the silvery façade of the moon, painting her face a bloody red. A lunar eclipse. A blood moon, only happened four times a year, and no one could ever predict whether it would block out the light altogether or paint the Earth's only natural satellite the color of blood. All across the country, people were gazing skyward to watch the event, but Ethan continued on, completely unawares, locked in his own head worrying about the problems his life had run into recently.

The troubled young stripper was broken out of his reverie when he got off the elevator on his floor. Currently, he was the only tenant on his floor, which he was fine with. He took his clothes off for a living, so he liked his privacy. That's why he now wore a confused look on his face. His landlord hadn't called to say he was stopping by for any reason and Ethan wasn't expecting any guests. Not to be depressing, but Ethan didn't really have any friends at the moment. Especially after the accident.

Music now shut off, Ethan cautiously crept forward, trying to keep his steps light so as not to make a sound, iPhone and headphones returning to their place in his jacket. At the end of the hall where his apartment was, his front door was hanging open, the door frame splintered as if someone had kicked the door in. Now, I know what you're all thinking. Why doesn't he just call the police right away? Honestly, Ethan wasn't even thinking about that. What he was thinking about was whether or not he'd just been robbed and trying to think what he kept in his apartment that someone would want to take.

Pushing the front door open even further, slowly so as not to alert anyone that might still be inside, Ethan entered his apartment, taking in the overturned couch and trashed living room. It looked like a horde of five-year-olds had torn through his place, destroying everything. Stepping over the ruins of his coffee table, he looked down the hall toward the bedrooms, he saw equally disturbed areas through the open doors. Hearing something in the direction of his kitchen, Ethan turned, slowly like how people do in horror movies when they don't really want to see what's behind them. Standing there in Ethan's kitchen was a tall, broad man, easily twice Ethan's size, rooting through his pantry and stuffing his face with a bag of chips. As quietly as possible, so as not to alert the man to his presence, Ethan made his way back to the front door, making a dash once he was close enough, only to have another guy grab him from behind, his hand a vice around Ethan's neck.

"Welcome home Ethan." the man who grabbed him growled, some greasy slime ball with too long hair, a face in good need of a shave and a jacket that needed some serious tailoring to cover the gun in its holster. The other an exited the kitchen at a leisurely pace, still munching on the chips. Ethan was dragged through the apartment, back the hallway and toward the bedroom before was shoved unceremoniously onto his unmade bed.

"Mr. Deucalion wants to be nice about this." The guy who grabbed him said as he dragged a chair from across the floor and turned it to face the bed, sitting down and staring down Ethan, the big guy moving silently behind him. "But fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money."

"Fifty?" Ethan asked loudly. "It was thirty. Even with interest - "

"Like I said." The mouthpiece interrupted him. "Mr. Deucalion wants to be nice. That's why he sent us." The slime ball smirked, his eyes roving over Ethan's fit frame. "He figured someone who had..." He licked his lips. "... similar interests might be able to help you come up with the money you owe him." The tall giant smirked as well while the Mouthpiece settled into the chair in a more comfortable position. "I mean, you make your living by taking your clothes off for other guys. And rumor has it you do private shows." Ethan scowled. "So, you earn what? Fifty dollars for every half an hour you take off you clothes? Why don't we give you a chance to lessen your debt a little." Ethan didn't even attempt to keep the look of disgust off of his face.

Behind the Mouthpiece, the giant picked up Ethan's video camera from his desk and turned it on, training the picture on the young man's scowl.

"Come on." Mouthpiece spoke. "Let's get this party started." Pushing his thoughts of disgust to the back of his mind, Ethan violently took his jacket off and flung it to the side, away from the thugs, hoping they wouldn't notice the money he'd earned tonight. "That's right." Mouthpiece sighed, tongue darting out between lips before retreating again. "Lets see those abs."

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Ethan let it out slowly before he reached down for the hem of his shirt. He fell back onto routine and pulled it upward slowly, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tawny skin and muscles that looked like they were carved. Mouthpiece held up a hand, indicating he wanted Ethan to stop, so the stripper left the shirt bunched up under his armpits, revealing the long, clean lines of his hard-earned torso. Once again, lips were licked and hands were waved, allowing Ethan to return to his strip show. Leaving his shirt alone, Ethan let his hands travel down through the valley of his abs to his belt buckle, undoing it easily with deft and nimble fingers. With the belt open and out-of-the-way, Ethan slowly, and sensuously popped open the buttons of the fly, revealing the blue cotton of his boxer-briefs.

Pausing for dramatic effect, Ethan glanced away from the thugs and caught the eye of his reflection in the mirror hanging on his closet door. That's when he paused completely. The reflection staring back at him wasn't him. Physically, yes, it was Ethan but the expression wasn't anything that Ethan ever wore. It was a haughty look, looking at it's doppelganger like it was a pathetic worm beneath his shoe. It was a look of disappointment.

"Come on, baby boy." Mouthpiece spoke up, noting the sudden lack of movement. "It was just starting to get good here." Ethan's gaze swiveled back to the piece of scum sitting in his bedroom, now hardened and resolute. The scum stood up and backhanded the young stripper to regain his attention.

"Screw you." Ethan ground out, a small trace of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Screw me." Mouthpiece spoke, a look of rage covering his face. "Screw you." A fist coming toward his face was the last thing Ethan saw before his world went black.

**- IN THE MIRROR -**

Ringing.

That's what roused Ethan from a very deep and comfortable sleep. An annoying, constant ringing. It would pause every moment or so before starting up again. It took Ethan's brain a moment to process that what he was hearing was his phone ringing. Eyes still closed because of the bright sunlight pouring in through his window, he reached across his bed for his phone. Instead of his iPhone, his hand came into contact with something sticky. Something liquid. Groggily, almost as if he had a hangover or had gotten into a fight, Ethan forced his eyes open. The world that swam before his gaze was blurry and moving but after a moment or two, everything righted itself and became clearer.

Ethan wished it hadn't.

Sitting up abruptly, Ethan's head whipped from side to side, trying to take in all the details even while his brain was trying to reject what it was seeing. There was blood staining the walls and more damage done to his desk and the actual frame of the bed, if the way the mattress was dipping dramatically was anything to go on. But what was most disturbing was the two thugs that had assaulted him earlier... or, at least, what was left of them. Mouthpiece was still, mostly, in one piece. One arm dangled loosely from its socket, whatever ligaments or muscle that was holding it there invisible beneath the blood-stained leather jacket. His shirt had been ripped open and the flesh beneath was mutilated and bloody, like raw hamburger. The finishing touch was the giant mirror shard sticking out of his neck.

The other thug, tall, big and silent, was literally in pieces. His arm lay at the foot of the bed while one of his legs from the knee down was tangled in Ethan's bedroom curtain. The man's head was sitting on Ethan's dresser, staring at the young man with dead eyes, while the main bulk of his body lay near the bedroom door, torn in half. No, literally torn in half. His upper body lay just outside the bedroom, as if he'd been trying to crawl away, while his lower half was closer to Mouthpiece's body, his viscera and internal organs strewn out between the two pieces.

Ethan couldn't stop looking, even as he felt the bile rose in his throat, threatening to dirty the room even more. Tearing his eyes away from the grizzly sight, he looked down and noticed for the first time that he was completely clean, his white shirt still pristine and his jeans still comfortable and clear of any blood. With the level of carnage in the room, one would think some of the blood spatter would have hit him, but here he sat, fresh as a daisy.

As he was checking himself, making sure he wasn't injured, he noticed the camera that had recorded his earlier degradation sitting near him on the bed, the red light still on, indicating it was still recording. Quick as a viper, Ethan snatched it up and shut off the record button, getting ready to rewind and see what had happened in here. Before he could, movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He jumped, startled by the thought of someone else being in the room with him. Looking around, his eyes landed on the mirror hanging on his closet door, now cracked and shattered in places, the large chunk missing from the top looking suspiciously like the piece in Mouthpiece's neck.

But what really captured his attention was his reflection. Where Ethan was clean and unsullied, his reflection was spattered in blood, the crimson liquid contrasting violently against the white t-shirt and making his reflection look like a barbarian just off of the battle field with the spatters on his face and arms. Ethan watched in horror, as his fractured reflection raised a hand to his lips, which were curved into a bemused smirk and put a finger to his lips.

Ethan ran.

* * *

_Review, please._


	3. Foxfire

_This is just to give a glimpse into some of the larger story arch that I am attempting to do here. Also, this is just a one-shot as opposed to a multi-chaptered story focusing on the other characters. Sad to say, but Kira isn't going to be one of my big main characters in this series/story, but I did want to give her some air time._

* * *

**Foxfire**

Kira Yukimura ran down the street, turning sharply down the alley that her target had run down. Looking at her, no one would suspect her for what she really was, not in the artfully torn tights, Catholic-school-girl skirt and Converse sneaker, not to mention the anime-themed shirt she was wearing. No, to the public who looked at her strangely as she ran passed, she was just a typical Asian-American girl who obviously was in a hurry to get somewhere. Honestly, that's how she preferred it.

People stayed out of her way this way.

Popping out of the alley, she turned the corner and nearly ran down a handsome young man exiting a dry cleaners, a suit bag held over his shoulder. He jumped back as she raced pace.

"Watch where you're going!" Kira shouted over her shoulder before racing across the street, in front of oncoming traffic and down another alley.

"What's your location?" A gruff, male voice barked over the comm in her ear.

"Alley from Baxter to Sullivan." Kira said back, leaping over a fallen trash can and continuing flawlessly after her target, who she'd just seen whip around a corner. "He's heading toward the docks!"

"You're supposed to wait for back-up." The voice growled again.

"And let him slip away?" Kira questioned. "I don't think so." Whipping around the corner, she saw the man she was chasing disappear in between the numerous freight containers waiting on the docks to either be shipped off or unloaded. Just before he disappeared from sight completely, Kira reared back her arm and thrust her palm forward. Something that looked suspiciously like lightning shot forth from her hand and arched across the space between them, striking the man in the back and setting his jacket on fire. The man yelped, alarmed, before twisting around, flinging off the burning article of clothing. Throwing a terrified glare he way, he disappeared into the metal maze. Before she could start her pursuit again, a non-descript black sedan screeched up to her right, three of the doors opening and three individuals getting out. Two men and one woman.

The woman was petite, not much taller than Kira, with darker skin and a shining curtain of straight dark brown hair. The almond-shaped dark brown eyes were set perfectly in a face that looked perpetually bemused and never seemed to age. Seriously. Morrell had been with the Company at least as long as Kira had been alive yet she didn't look much older from when she had started. The men were both tall, dressed in bland clothing any civilian might be wearing, but if one were looking close enough, one could see the holsters beneath their jackets and the back-up guns at the small of their backs. The first man was taller than the other, with wild black hair and eyes.

"Procedure says we do this as a team." the other man snarled, his close-cropped silver brown hair glinting in the sunlight. The palest blue eyes that she had ever seen glared in her direction, as harsh and cold as glaciers.

"Screw your procedure, Argent." Kira shot back.

"When you work with me, we follow the book." Argent snapped back, pulling out his gun and checking the clip before pulling back the hammer and turning off the safety. Without sparing Kira another thought, Argent turned toward the other two agents. "Finstock, you and Morrell go around, try and cut off any paths of escape." He turned that cold stare back toward her. "You're with me."

"Better you than me." Finstock checked his own gun, with Morrell doing the same thing silently at his side. "The last time I had a partner that didn't follow procedure, I lost a testicle to exposure." He looked up, first at Kira then at Argent. "I don't want that to happen to you."

"I think we're safe from the cold, Bobby." Argent replied as he checked his backup weapon. "That's not Barrow's ability." Replacing the spare gun at the small of his back, he cast the other man a rare grin. "Besides, Greenberg apologized. Got you a card and everything."

"_Greenberg_." Finstock hissed under his breath, like the name alone was something he'd stepped on.

With that, the four of them moved into the metal maze of containers, splitting up at the first junction. Moving slowly and cautiously, Argent and Kira moved down the the aisles, gun and hand up and ready to fire at each open passage. Kira knew better than to speak now. Argent was one the best agent the Company had on it's roster, so it was his show. Just as they hit a dead end, their heard Finstock shout and then a quick burst of gunfire that echoed through the metal corridors.

Kira and Argent were immediately on the move, heading in the direction they'd heard the shots come from. Several twists and turns later, they came across their target running toward them, Morrell and Finstock at his back, guns out. Argent immediately planted his feet, with Kira skidding to a halt a few seconds after him, his gun pointed at the man they'd been chasing through the city.

"Freeze, Barrow!" Argent's bellow echoed between the containers, magnifying its effect. The gaunt, almost skeletal man skidded to a halt, gazing down the barrel of the gun pointed at him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the other two that had been chasing him no longer running, but creeping forward cautiously.

"You people have no right to arrest me!" Barrow shouted. "I have rights!"

"Not with us you don't." Argent said back calmly, trying to keep Barrow's attention on him. Twisting to keep all four of them in his sights, Barrow backed up toward one of the metal containers, protecting his flank. Once he was close enough to the metal, Kira decided to act, with or without Argent's permission. Creating another charge with her hand, she held her palm toward the end of the container she was closest too, tendrils of electricity jumping from her fingertips to the metal. With a burst of energy, she poured electricity into the container, semi-electrocuting Barrow further down the container when the charge reached him, also throwing him forward, his clothes now smoking. With a primal roar that started Kira, who had expected him to at least be unconscious, Barrow pushed himself to his feet, the bare skin of his hands and face now flashing a dangerously bright orange color.

He was going nuclear.

"Oops." Kira muttered when Argent threw a dirty look her way. Argent raised his gun again, ready to put the target down, which drew Barrow's attention. While he was distracted, Morrell got closer, still silent and dark. With each step closer, the glow Barrow emitted lessened until he was just a normal man again. Not understanding what was going on, he turned around, only to receive Morrell's small hand over his eyes and forehead. All the fight immediately left his body as he sort of deflated, Morrell and Finstock's quick hands the only thing keeping him from dropping bodily to the ground. When Morrell finally drew back her hand, Barrow was unconscious. Checking his pulse, the mute woman looked up at Argent and gave a nod.

The tension left the agent, who deftly holstered his gun with a practiced hand before he rounded on Kira.

"The point of this assignment was to take him in alive!" His voice didn't really rise in volume, but his rage came across clearly.

"And he is alive." Kira pointed out.

"By dumb luck." Argent shot back. "If Morrell hadn't been here to keep his powers in check after you set him off, this entire bay would be a nuclear crater right now." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off an oncoming headache. "This is why you're mother doesn't let you go on field missions." His hand moved away. "You're reckless and don't think about the consequences of what you're doing. There's a reason we have procedure's for missions like this. Shaking his head, he turned his back on her and focused on the other agents. "Bobby, go back to the car and see if we have anything to get him out of here with. And call this in to HQ."

"Sure." Finstock holstered his weapons and made his way down the corridors of metal toward the exit while the other three stayed with their target.

"Can you keep him down until we can trank him?" Argent asked and Morrell nodded, silent as always.

"What about me?" Kira spoke up, trying to keep her voice light.

"Stand there and don't touch anything." Argent snapped, not even sparing a glance her way. Kira scowled and crossed her arms, glaring off into space. This benefit tonight had better be worth it. Hopefully she'll meet someone cute to make out with, because these political things her parents kept dragging her to were boring as hell.

* * *

_See if you can spot Scott in there. If you don't, go read "Meant For Something Greater" and then see if you can find him_.


	4. The Amazing Indestructable Girl

_Okay, this is my Allison one and I know it's short, but that's mostly because I'm still not entirely sure what I'm going to do with her character. Hopefully I'll be hit with inspiration at some point. BTDubs, I gave her the power she has because I was incredibly sad when they killed her off on the show, even after I found out that it was Crystal's decision to leave_

* * *

**The Amazing Indestructible Girl**

The camera was out of focus and the frame was shaking, as if whoever was holding it was trying to focus it while they were still moving. Whoever was holding it eventually stopped moving enough to focus on a tall, dark haired girl in a blue blouse and plaid skirt as she kicked up clouds of dirt, running toward a staircase that was really a broken escalator.

"Keep the camera on me!" The girl shouted as she raced up the stairs, her voice echoing around the musty interior of the abandoned mall they were doing this in. She moved along the edge of the balcony overlooking the main space of floor that the cameraman was standing in, coincidentally the only place where light was coming in from the shattered skylight, the other windows all boarded up or covered in graffiti.

"Okay!" The cameraman shouted back, training the picture on her while she stepped over the edge of the balcony until she was hovering over the floor below, and the great gaping hole that went down another two floors. The cameraman crept closer so that he could pan the camera from where the girl was perched down to look at what lay within the chasm. "That's gotta be what, a hundred feet? More?" He said to himself, his voice still audible to the camera before he brought the lens back up to his friend.

"Ready?" She asked.

"This is crazy!" He shouted back.

"I know." The girl said in a softer voice, but due to the great acoustics this place had, he heard it anyway. Before he could say anything in reply, whether to encourage or disway her, she jumped. She screamed the whole way down, hitting herself on the edge of the hole in the floor, having misjudged the distance. She twisted and flipped involuntarily, falling further down and crashing into another broken escalator further down before tumbling down the steps to crash into a large pile of steel rods at the base.

She didn't get up.

"Oh, my God!" the cameraman shouted, having kept the camera on her the entire time and capturing the whole thing on film. Racing around the edge of the hole, he ran toward the stairs and flew down them until he reached the floor where his friend had fallen to. Turning on the camera light so he could see down in the gloom, he raced toward the shaft of light that came down from above, witnessing (but not believing) his friend climbing slowly and unsteadily to her feet. "Are you okay?"

The girl turned her very pretty face toward the camera, a mighty feat considering her head had been turned the whole way around. Her neck clicked loudly as bones realigned and mended themselves while she popped her right shoulder back in its socket before grasping the steel rod sticking out from her gut. Making sure she had her eyes trained firmly on the camera she pulled it out slowly, releasing a groan of pain while the gash in her cheek mended itself before disappearing completely as if wiped away by some god's hand. Once the rod was completely out, she let it drop with a loud clang of metal before she turned and spat a bullet of blood onto the dusty ground. She took a deep breath and focused on the camera again.

"My name is Allison Argent." She said while trying to catch her breath, the hole in her shirt now revealing perfectly smooth and flawless skin instead of the would that was there less than a moment ago. "And that was attempt number six."

* * *

_Who thinks they can guess who the camera man is?_


	5. In and Out of Time

**In and Out of Time**

**"Use the Force Stiles"**

Stiles.

I know what you're thinking. What the hell is a Stiles? Well, that this guy's name. Yeah, him. The one leaning back in his chair behind the front desk, balancing a coffee cup full of pencils and pens on his forehead. Yep. That's Stiles. He gets bored pretty easily.

In case you were wondering, Stiles isn't his real name. I mean, what kind of parent names their child Stiles Stilinski? Though, in all honesty, you probably wouldn't even be able to pronounce his real name. One of his high-school teachers had even considered his name a form of child abuse. But anyway, that's why he went by Stiles instead. The reason behind the balancing act, however, well no one really knew what went on in Stiles' head except for Stiles.

Who would have thought working at an insane asylum could be so boring.

Granted, it probably wasn't that boring to the actual doctors and orderlies that had to deal with the crazies that roamed the halls, but to Stiles, this was pure torture. Especially if you factored in his ADHD. Just sitting behind a desk for hours at a time and filing paperwork while answering phones was driving him up the wall. Pretty soon he'd need his own padded room down the hall. You may be asking yourself: "Why is Stiles so bored?" Well, as stated above, he's constantly moving. Unfortunately for him he isn't qualified to go past the doctors' offices, let alone interact with the patients of the funny farm.

As Stiles leaned further back in his chair, he lost his balance and flailed, the cup of writing utensils falling from its perch and falling in slow motion toward the floor. No, seriously. Halfway on its trip to the floor, Stiles had managed to right himself and reached for it with a shout. The moment the sound left his lips, the cup had slowed its descent. Well, not just the cup. As Stiles looked around, he saw everything had slowed. The grandfather clock that ticked away endlessly in the corner of the foyer, it's pendulum had slowed in its arch while the second hand on his desk clock appeared to have stopped completely. Then there were the stacks of neatly organized papers Stiles had accidentally kicked during his flailing, arching artistically through the air, like big square leaves covered in rows of neat handwriting or a doctor's hurried chicken scratch. Wearing a confused expression, Stiles looked between all these weird occurences before he quickly grabbed the coffee mug that caused this incident in the first place. The moment he had a solid grip on the ceramic, time returned to its normal speed and the papers flying, clocks returning to their normal speed and the few pens that had fallen from the cup clattering to the floor.

Shaking his head, Stiles set the cup-o-pens back on the front desk and stood up to go collect the scattered paperwork.

"You are seriously loosing it, Stilinski." He muttered to himself as he knelt to pick up the pens first before moving to the papers now spread out haphazardly across the grand-foyer of the Eichen House lobby. "Pretty soon you're going to need a padded room of your own." As he gathered all the papers, he sat down cross-legged on the floor and started making piles around him of patient files and doctors notes, utilizing the floor space to get it done quicker. While he worked, the doors that led to the wing of doctor's offices opened and two individuals stepped out, one a man in a white doctor's coat and other a woman in an expensive black skirt suit.

"... everything's fine?" Dr. Deaton, Stiles boss, asked, looking over at the Japanese-American woman at his side, who despite being in fashionable heels, kept up their quick pace.

"Yes, the benefit went off without a hitch." The woman responded. "Talia, unfortunately, couldn't make it, but her son made an appearance in her stead. Shook hands and everything." She chuckled. "He certainly cleans up nicely. I swear, if he wasn't so good in the field, he would have made a perfect candidate for our plans."

"Talia would never have allowed it." Dr. Deaton said in response, his voice as deep and calm as the ocean. "And, in any case, I wasn't referring to the party. I was asking about the well-being of your daughter."

"Oh, Kira's fine." The woman waved a perfectly manicured hand at the question, dismissing any more concerns from the doctor. "She's being reprimanded, of course, but that's not exactly anything new." The two reached the end of the hall and spotted Stiles from his seat on the floor, surrounded by piles of paperwork and doing his best to make it look like he wasn't eavesdropping.

"Everything alright, Stiles?" Dr. Deaton asked.

"Yeah, I just knocked over a pile of stuff." Stiles replied with a smile. "Don't worry, Doc. I'll get it all sorted out before I leave." Dr. Deaton graced Stiles with his usual bemused smile, as if he knew something Stiles knew but didn't yet understand. Come to think of it, Dr. Deaton looked at everybody that way. Turning his gaze from his boss, he looked to the woman standing next to him. "Good evening, Mrs. Yukimura. You look lovely tonight."

Noshiko Yukimura looked down her nose at Stiles like he was something that she had stepped in before she turned back to Deaton with a flick of her hair, never even once uttering a single word to Stiles.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider coming to the election, Alan?" Noshiko asked. "It should be a blast."

"Your attempts at casual humor about this aside," Deaton responded. "We've discussed this before. I don't entirely agree with this course of action."

"Yes, I know." Noshiko admitted. "But you are still behind it."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I want to be there to witness it." Deaton confided. "I'm perfectly capable of catching the fireworks from here."

"Goodbye, Alan." Noshiko leaned in and exchanged a kiss on the cheek with Deaton.

"Goodnight, Noshiko." Alan said in reply and stepped aside, as she swept away toward the exit. Before she could reach for the door, however, there was a shout from the opposite hall Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Yukimura had walked from. The hall that led to the secure ward, where they kept the real psychos.

Or, at least Stiles thought he heard a shout.

When he looked up, he met the concerned brown eyes of his boss, who was crouching down in front of him where he still sat on the floor, the papers all neatly organized around him.

"'M sorry." Stiles said, focusing on Deaton. "What?"

"I asked if you were alright?" Deaton clarified.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Stiles forced a grin past his confusion. "I guess I just spaced while organizing the papers. I'll be done in a second."

"Stiles, they are done." Deaton pointed out and Stiles looked around and saw everything was in fact in neatly organized piles, each with a piece of paper paperclipped to the front that bore Stiles' messy scrawl. "Plus, you were supposed to leave half an hour ago." Unable to stop the shock from passing over his face, Stiles glanced over toward the grandfather clock in the foyer and saw that Deaton was right. Two hours had gone by and Stiles hadn't even been aware of it. Turning back to Deaton, he slapped on a smile.

"Guess time really does fly when your having fun." Stiles joked. "So much fun." Deaton graced Stiles with one of his rare chuckles.

"Why don't you get your stuff and go home, Stiles." Deaton said gently, grabbing some of the files and standing up while Stiles grabbed the rest and also rose to his feet. "Go get some sleep." Stiles placed the files down and grabbed his jacket and keys before moving toward the exit. "Oh, and Stiles." The young man paused, hand on the open door and looked back toward his boss.

"Yeah?"

"Do me a favor and lay off your pills tonight."

"Sure, sure." Stiles laughed at the absurdity of him not taking his Adderall before he left, waving over his shoulder. Striding across the grass of the front lawns toward the employee parking lot where his beat-up blue jeep sat, waiting for him. "Hey, baby." He climbed into the driver's side before putting the key in the ignition and starting the engine. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

**- IN AND OUT OF TIME -**

"Seriously, dad." Stiles berated a man in a Sheriff's uniform as he sat down at the kitchen table, automatically reaching for the containers of fast food he'd gotten on his way home from the station. Stiles, being both younger and quicker, snagged the bag before his dad could reach for the greasy heart-attack on a bun that lurked inside.

"Stiles!" The Sheriff looked at his son, his patience thinning.

"Don't give me that." Stiles scolded his father. "I made a salad and you're going to sit there and enjoy it." The dark-haired young man placed a large bowel filled with lettuce and other vegetables before his father along with a bottle of healthy salad dressing. The Sheriff looked from the healthy bowl his son had placed before him before turning his head to stare longingly at the bag of fast food still his Stiles' grip. Seeing this, Stiles rolled whiskey-colored eyes. "If you eat the whole salad, you can have the burger."

"Wait a second." the Sheriff of Beacon Hills leaned back in his kitchen chair. "I'm the parent here." He crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared down his son. "I make the rules." Stiles snorted at that statement and moved toward the trash can, holding the bag over the receptacle.

"Eat the salad or I'll cook nothing but tofu for the next month." Stiles threatened, giving his father his own version of the cop stare, learned from many afternoons at the Sheriff's station. Father and son stared each other down before the Sheriff eventually sighed in a defeat and leaned forward, grabbing a fork and impaling some lettuce and tomatoes on the end. Grinning in victory, Stiles returned the bag of greasy food to the kitchen table before grabbing his father a glass of water to go with dinner. Setting it down before his dad, he grabbed the fries from the bag and moved to leave the kitchen, getting an outraged shout from his father.

"I said you could have the burger." Stiles pointed out, popping one of the curly fries into his mouth. "I didn't say anything about the fries." The younger of the two men raised another fry to his lips before munching on it, smiling at his dad the entire time. "Night dad." Stiles called over his shoulder. "If you don't eat that whole salad, I'll know." The Sheriff grinned to himself before getting up and heading toward the fridge, pulling out the bottle of A1 steak sauce sauce that he brought over and dumped on his salad to make it more eatable.

Upstairs, Stiles opened up his laptop and saw that Scott was not on Skype, which meant he was probably still at Lydia's fundraiser and Malia was away for the weekend, shopping with her mother and sister, leaving Stiles all alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to. This wasn't the first time he cursed his decision to not pursue college right away and go get a life of his own. All of his friends from high school had gone off and done something with their lives.

Scott was a nurse, taking care of dying people and okay, it was kind of morbid, but it was Scott. He hated to see people suffer. Lydia was about to become the youngest member of the United States Congress, no matter what the polls happened to currently say regarding the situation. Jackson, the pompous asshat, was a wildly successful actor in Hollywood, and according to all the gossip magazines, was romantically involved with Lydia, though Stiles thought that might all just be a publicity stunt. Danny had gone off and joined the Marines, using his considerable computer skills to protect the country. Everyone had gone off and gotten a life, leaving Stiles behind, stuck in a rut of monotony.

Finishing off the rest of the fries, Stiles dropped the empty container into the trash can next to his desk before moving toward his dresser and grabbing a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt to sleep in. He travelled to his in-suite bathroom and washed up, changing into his sleep attire all on auto-pilot while he thought about his day. However, when he got to the part of his nightly routine when he had to take his pills, he paused, Deaton's earlier words bouncing around in his head.

Normally, whenever someone suggested he simply took too many pills and that he should maybe dial them back a bit, Stiles simply disregarded them. He needed his pills to help keep his ADHD in check. He's been told that ever since his mother died and his hyperactivity really started to kick in. But Deaton's words...

It was like they were echoing in his head, over and over and Stiles decided, just this once, to not take the pills.

Putting the prescription bottle back on the sink, never even opened, Stiles turned back toward his bedroom, flicking off the lights as he went. Once under the covers, he found himself drifting off to sleep surprisingly fast. Usually, we would lay awake for an hour or two, contemplating the mysteries of life... or the history of circumcision, whichever. But tonight, he was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

And he dreamed. Another thing the didn't normally happen.

**- IN AND OUT OF TIME -**

_Stiles looked up when he heard the shout from down the hall, a man flying through the air and sliding across the tile. The unconscious man rolled over onto his back and Stiles could see it was Brunski, the sociopathic head orderly who took way too much pleasure out of taunting and tormenting the patients at Eichen House. Striding out of the hall was a tall woman, darker skinned, maybe Indian. Indian as in India, not Native American. Her eye were glowing read and several of the patients of Eichen House huddled around her, their eyes glowing as well, but not as brightly. They all looked savage, like rabid animals, not the usual, medicated and docile lunatics he was used to dealing with. Not that he actually got to deal with them._

_Several of the crazies rushed forward and Dr. Deaton moved in a manner that Stiles honestly didn't think he had in him. Everything happened so fast, as they tend to in dreams, with the images he was seeing blurring and fragmenting in odd ways. In a series of quick, decisive blows, Deaton knocked out his patients, their eyes no longer glowing as they lost conciousness. Nearby, Noshiko also easily dispatched several nut jobs before moving toward the woman who wasn't crouched and snarling with primal rage. The two women exchanged blows in that hyper-surreal way of dreams until a blade flashed out of nowhere and Mrs. Yukimura fell, his throat a bleeding red mess._

_During all this commotion, Stiles had jumped from his seated position on the floor and flailed backward as one of the patients charged toward him, knocking them both backward and to the ground again. Sitting propped against the desk for some unknown reason was a baseball bat, which Stiles promptly grabbed and swung, hitting the patient about the head and knocking him out cold._

_As Stiles climbed back to his feet, he witnessed Deaton moving to intercept the Indian woman, but she moved toward Stiles first, easily knocking aside the baseball bat and twisting him into the circle of her arms, blade to his throat. Several more orderlies rushed out of the other halls, a few of them supporting guns, which would be way more shocking if he didn't currently have a knife to his throat._

_"Let me out of here." The woman growled, the blade pressing closer to his skin, drawing a thin line of blood and causing Stiles to whimper, try as he might to stop it._

_"No." Deaton's voice was a deep and calm as ever, holding out a hand to keep the orderlies with their pistols back, though they kept their firearms trained on Stiles and the woman._

_"Maybe I'll just tear his pretty little throat out." The woman growled, pressing the blade even closer._

_"Not here you won't." Alan said simply, his voice not higher or lower than usual, utterly calm. Surprisingly, it had an effect, the blade falling away from his neck while the hand gripping his wrists loosened, allowing Stiles to slide away and fall to the floor in his haste to escape, sliding backward on his backside and gazing in fear at the woman who had attacked him. Her eyes were no longer growing and now staring at Dr. Deaton in shock as her body trembled, like she was trying to move but couldn't. The entire time, Deaton simply stared at her, his gaze deep and endless, pining her to the spot._

_While the two entertained a staring contest, Mrs. Yukimura approached, her throat stained red with her own blood but bearing no wound of any kind. In her hand was a hypothermic needle, the syringe filled with some unknown liquid. The Indian woman's gaze attempted to flicker to the Japanese woman approaching, but Deaton's gaze held her steady. Noshiko Yukimura injected the violent woman with the contents of the syringe and her eyes immediately began to droop, her limbs slackening. The knife in her hand clattered to the ground, quickly followed by her body, Mrs. Yukimura stepping back and letting the orderlies come forward to collect her and take her back to wherever she had broken out of._

_Only as they were carting her unconscious body away did Mrs. Yukimura dare to grace Stiles with a gaze._

_"The boy." She nodded in his direction and Stiles watched as Dr. Deaton also turned his eyes to him. The dark-skinned doctor quickly closed the distance and crouched down before Stiles, the first traces of emotion entering his gaze since this started: concern._

_"Stiles." Deaton said in his perpetually calm voice. "I need you to look at me." Stiles found himself looking away from the blood-stained figure of Noshiko Yukimura and turning to look into the deep brown orbs of Alan Deaton. "You're going to forget now, Stiles." As Deaton spoke, Stiles felt his mind calming, even though he knew he shouldn't have. His vision began to blacken around the edges, slowly darkening, spiraling inward until there was nothing but Deaton's face. A moment later, there wasn't even that, just the blackness._

_"And then you're going to remember."_

* * *

_So, Stiles' missing time isn't like Ethan's from his story "In the Mirror." But there is a reason behind it, I just can't tell you what it is yet. That's part of the surprise. Though, if you guessed it, I would be super happy._

_Also, in case you didn't really grasp it, that scene in the end is a dream._


	6. Stolen Time

**In The Mirror**

**Stolen Time**

Ethan threw up in the alley behind his apartment building, the carnage he'd witnessed finally catching up to the front of his brain. Once he was done retching and emptying his stomach of what little contents it had, he moved down the alley a bit more before leaning against the gritty brick wall and began to take in large, gasping breaths of what passed for fresh air in Los Angeles, trying to get the smell and taste of his own sick from his nose and mouth.

When his head eventually cleared, he realized his phone had been ringing. Forcing himself to stand up, he pulled his phone from the jacket he had managed to grab at the last second when he fled his apartment and saw that he had three missed calls in the last ten minutes, all from work. Clicking on his voicemail, he listened to the messages from his boss, each one growing more frustrated as he basically just told Ethan to get his ass to work for rehearsal or he wouldn't have to worry about coming in ever again. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he stepped over the spatter of vomit and moved toward the street where his piece-of-shit car sat.

After the accident, he had sold his motorcycle to help pay for bills and other unexpected expenses, buying this crappy car to compensate. As he approached the vehicle, fishing his keys out of his pocket, he dialed work, his manager answering on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"I'm so sorry." Ethan started out with an apology.

"You better have one hell of an excuse." The man practically growled on the other end of the phone. "You're an hour late."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but something came up at the last second." Ethan glanced involuntarily up toward his apartment windows. "But don't worry, I'm on my way right now. I'll be there in ten minutes." Ethan tossed the camera that he snagged from his bedroom before fleeing his home onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel of the car, sliding the key into the ignition and starting the car.

"Be here in five." His manager barked before hanging up. Taking one last look up at his windows, Ethan took a deep breath and steeled his mind. Right now he had to prioritize. Ditching work would just arouse suspicion, not to mention he did actually need the job. He would have to worry about what waited for him when he got home. Buckling his seatbelt, he took off for work, breaking a few speed limits in his haste to get there. And, of course, because it was just his luck, he got stuck in a traffic jam. While he sat impatiently, occasionally honking his horn like the other angry drivers, he kept glancing over at the camera sitting next to him in the passenger seat. When it became apparent that traffic wasn't going to be moving anytime soon, Ethan gave into curiosity and reached for the device.

Opening the viewing screen, Ethan went to the last recording on the digital camera and hit play, the small screen immediately filling with the image of his bedroom, with him kneeling on the bed, looking both pissed and terrified while Mouthpiece prattled on off camera. He watched all the events he remembered, from throwing off his jacket and the raising of his shirt to when Mouthpiece came into the shot and backhanded the him on camera when he told the thug to go screw himself. As he watched the hit, his hand came up to his cheek, where he'd been hit, but he didn't even feel a bruise. He saw the second blow coming on the camera, but that's where things had gotten fuzzy the night before. In the camera, he watched as he had caught the thug's fist in his grip and glared, not looking at all like himself.

He looked murderous.

Ethan watched as he squeezed the thugs fist until the sound of bones crunching was audible over the speakers, accompanied by the pained shout of the Mouthpiece. The Ethan on the screen shoved the thug back, knocking him into his accomplice who dropped the camera, which now faced toward the mirror on the closet door, recording the reflections of violence caught in its glassy surface. Ethan watched as the picture cut out after the camera had been knocked around again, the image he was looking at now reminiscent of television static. The audio, however, still worked perfectly, allowing a horrified Ethan to listen to the tortured screams of the men as they were being murdered, accompanied by the meaty sounds of bodies being ripped apart. Unable to look away, he didn't see the traffic was finally starting to move until the car directly behind him laid on their horn.

Startled, Ethan looked up and saw he was no longer sitting in traffic. Hell, he wasn't even in the city anymore. He was sitting in his car at the very edge of a vast, mostly empty parking lot. Stepping out of the car, he looked around, camera no longer in his hand but his once-again ringing phone. Judging by the busy terminal he saw in the distance and the plane passing incredibly close overhead, Ethan was now at LAX, though how he had gotten there was a complete mystery to him.

Looking down, he realized his outfit had changed as well. Gone was his white t-shirt, comfortable jeans and ratty sneakers and in their place was a form fitting crimson tank-top, tight black jeans and a pair of fashionably scuffed black biker boots.

Once again struck with confusion, Ethan looked around once more before looking down at his phone, which had stopped ringing, seeing he had several missed calls, some from his bos, others by his co-workers, as well as a vast amount of text-messages. What alarmed him the most about what he was seeing was the time listed on the phone. Four hours had gone by since he'd been stuck in traffic, but to Ethan it had all felt no more than a few seconds.

Pushing all concerns for his mental health aside, he got back into his car and peeled out of the parking lot, racing for work and praying that he would still have a job when he got there.

**- IN THE MIRROR -**

"No." His manager snapped, seated behind his desk and somehow managing to look intimidating in his tie and glasses while his work space was littered with different colored thongs of various materials and pictures of semi-nude or completely nude men "I need employees that want to be here. And if they don't, this town is full of guys who would have a blast while working here." Looking over the rims of his spectacles at Ethan, he sighed before standing up and circling around his desk before leaning on it next to Ethan.

"Look, Ethan, I'm sorry, but this _is _a business." The man pointed out. "I need people who are going to show up on time, ready to go" He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off an oncoming headache. "We've given you a lot of leeway in light of what happened with your brother, but it's been almost a year now. It's time to move on." He slipped his glasses back on "This job's not for everyone, and I like you, Ethan, I really do, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go. You've been late over a dozen times in the last six months alone, not to mention you very nearly assaulting several of our customers lately."

"How much do you like me?" Ethan asked, also standing and moving closer to his boss. "I mean, maybe we could work out some sort of arrangement." His hand moved up the man's chest, sensuously wrapping his tie around his fingers while he licked his lips. While Ethan had absolutely no idea what was happening to him, or what had happened to those missing four hours, he was actually grateful for the costume change. The outfit he'd found himself in after he'd "woken up" at the airport accentuated all of his good qualities and revealed plenty of skin, showing off the muscles in his bare arms, made his legs look longer and don't even get started on that ass. For any type of seduction, his outfit worked. "I really need this job."

"Don't embarrass yourself." His boss sneered, leaning away from Ethan. "You're not my type."

"No." Ethan growled back, his entire posture stiffened and tight now as the hand wrapped around the tie tightened into a fist and pulled, choking his boss and cutting off his air supply. "No, your type are a bunch of tweaked-out twinks that you can take advantage of in back rooms." The voice that came from between his lips were softer, deadlier and it made the man's hair stand on end. "There are plenty of us that know what you do when you disappear during work hours. Maybe you should reconsider your opinion on whether or not I have a job here."

"Or, I could just call security." The other man wheezed as his face began to darken due to the lack of oxygen. "Now let me go." At those words, Ethan snapped back into his own head with wide eyes as he realized what exactly he was doing. immediately he let go of the tie and his boss - sorry, former boss, began to take in choking gasps of air. Ethan took a few steps back to put some space between them while he tried to figure out what exactly had just happened. After a few more choking breaths, the manager of the Jungle stood up to his full height and glared at the younger man.

"Get out of my office." The man growled and Ethan steeled himself, adopting the cocky swagger his brother used to pull off so easily.

"Who needs this place anyway." Ethan spat before turning on his heel and opening the door to the office violently, a crack splitting it in half when it slammed into the wall. The manager of the club stood there dumbfounded, looking at the broken door while Ethan stomped off toward the changing room to collect what little belongings he had here, clothing and pictures and whatnot.

Out in the main floor of the club, some of the full-time dancers were working on a routine to replace Ethan for the night, while some of the others, mostly new dancers, were lounging by the bar, all eyes turning toward him when he exited the office. Most of those eyes were wide and no one moved a muscle as he stalked past, the whispering starting when he was what they assumed was out of ear-shot. Ethan ignored them and went to his work-station, pulling out the spare clothes he had in the locker beneath and taking the picture from the corner of his mirror. Ethan paused in his packing, sitting down in the chair and staring at the picture.

It was a worn photograph of what looked like a back yard BBQ with Ethan and someone that was obviously his twin. Each twin was on either side of a dark-skinned girl with wild, care-free curls who was obviously holding the camera up and away so as to take a group selfie. Standing behind the three of them and with an arm around either twin was a tall, dark-skinned man who looked strikingly similar to the girl - a brother perhaps - and he was crouching down somewhat to fit into the shot, all four of them smiling. Ethan ran his fingers over the worn out creases in the photograph and then over the words written in sharpie under their faces. "Me and My Boys!" It was sad to think that two of them were now dead with another missing, leaving Ethan here all alone.

Wiping at his eyes to brush away the forming tears, Ethan folded the picture and put it in his back pocket before throwing the rest of his belongings into a gym bag and standing up to leave, bypassing the spectacle that was sure to be waiting him on the main floor and simply slipping out of the building through the side entrance and heading toward his car.

He had things to take care of, but first... he needed a drink.

**- IN THE MIRROR -**

The glass sat on the top of the bar, the amber liquid barely coating the bottom as Ethan twirled it in between his hands. He'd been sober for over a year now, a year and six months at his last count, but he was seriously tempted today. After the accident, he didn't have anyone to keep him straight except for himself and he'd done pretty well, until today. The last twenty hours was just one thing after another, his problems piling higher and higher. Even still, even with the glass in his hand, he didn't drink.

"Long day, sweetheart?" a voice said from behind him, deep yet feminine. Looking over his shoulder he saw a drag queen sitting at a table in the corner of the dim bar.

"You have no idea." Ethan mumbled while he turned back to his drink.

"Want to see if it gets better?" The drag queen asked again. The younger man turned around in his bar stool to face the woman completely.

"I'll pass, thanks." Ethan said, sarcasm thick on his tongue, earning a laugh from the drag queen.

"Oh, sweety." She waved her large, manicured hand as if to say 'Parish the thought' before using that same hand to gesture him over. "You're not my type. Now come. Sit, sit." Shrugging his shoulders, Ethan reached behind him and grabbed his untouched drink and moved to join her at her table. "Now, what can Mysterious Marilyn do for you, hmm? Palm readings? A spin around the Ouija?" Ethan simply looked from the drag queen, noting the strong, square jaw under all the make-up before he looked down at the various trinkets and "instruments" spread out across the table before he looked back up, arching an eyebrow. "Mmm, tarot it is?"

Neatly brushing aside her other things, Mysterious Marilyn shuffles her tarot deck with fingers ending in too-long fingernails painted a tasteful burgundy color before holding out the cards for Ethan.

"Hand on the cards please."

"I don't have any money." Ethan pointed out, receiving a scoff and a wave of the other hand. Shrugging, Ethan reached out and put his hand on the tarot cards and watched while Mysterious Marilyn closed her eyes.

"Now, take a deep breath and concentrate." She intoned. "Picture the questions you have being answered." She took a deep breath in and slowly let it out while Ethan simply sat there and watched with a cocked eyebrow. After a moment of "concentrating," Mysterious Marilyn took the cards back and began to lay them out in a complicated pattern, her hands moving so fast Ethan could barely keep track of them, all of the cards face down. Once they were all laid out, Mysterious Marilyn took another breath before she flipped over a card in the center of the configuration.

"Hmm. The Two of Swords." She mumbled more to herself. "This card represents you and this particular card tells of two opposing views on a manner. Two separate paths that one could take." Her large eyes flickered up to Ethan's face. "Are you feeling conflicted about something?"

"Who isn't?" Ethan retorted, trying to keep his calm while wondering what he was doing here. Mysterious Marilyn barely suppressed an eye roll before moving to the next card, and the next and the next, flipping each one over and revealing what they were and what they meaned.

The Eight of Swords, indicating he felt restricted, stuck in a situation he couldn't quite figure out how to get out of.

The Fool, ignorance of something vital in his life. The Devil, an external or internal presence playing a major role in the events of Ethan's life currently. The Three of Swords next to the reversed Lovers, meaning he was suffering from heartache, possibly due to the separation from of a loved one. Strength , The World, Rebirth, Wheel.

And then there were the cards where she asked questions instead of just stating facts.

Death: Has he lost anyone close to him recently? Eight of Cups: Was he struggling with an addiction of some kind? That question had been delivered with a quick glance toward the glass of bourbon still in his hands, still undrunk.

Then she got to his possible future.

The Tower: a great change headed his way, or already happening. Ten of Swords: Betrayal. The Hermit in reverse: isolation and loneliness.

With each passing card and each question or statement that corresponded with something happening in Ethan's life, his felt his face growing more and more closed off. Before she could finish off her cards, he abruptly stood, drink still untouched and moved to leave, accidentally knocking over the pile of non-used cards, with one of them sliding before Mysterious Marilyn. She looked at that card, the others now forgotten and flipped it over, arching a perfect eyebrow.

"Did you get a new car recently?" She asked, and Ethan paused, turning to look at her incredulously.

"Do I look like I have the money for a new car?" He asked sarcastically, no longer trying to keep the disdain from his voice. He shrugged on his leather jacket, before turning toward the exit. "Thanks for the reading." He slipped on his aviators as he slipped out into the dying sunlight. Mysterious Marilyn simply shrugged her impressive shoulder before reshuffling her deck of tarot cards and reaching across the table for Ethan's forgotten drink.

**- IN THE MIRROR -**

Ethan pulled up in front of his apartment building, trying not to think about the crazy drag queen at the bar. Thankfully she had distracted him enough that he didn't slip and have a drink, but it had been close. Stepping from his car, he locked it behind him, noting the cherry-red classic convertible now parked out front, a Cadillac Eldorado if he wasn't mistaken, with the top down, of course, just begging to be stolen. Appreciating the luxury automobile while scoffing at the arrogance of its owner, Ethan grabbed his grocery bag full of belongings and cautiously entered his building, glancing around nervously as he did so. A quick ride up the elevator later and he was in his hall again, standing before his locked door and steeling himself to deal with the carnage inside.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he inserted the key in the lock and entered, quickly closing the door and relocking it behind him. He rested his head against the wood of the door for a moment before reaching over with his eyes closed and flicking the light switch, flooding his living room with light. Once again he was taking deep breaths before he turned around... to find a spotlessly clean living room. Seriously, all the mess from the night before was gone, the television back in place on the wall, the coffee table in front of the couch and the carpet under both neatly vacuumed while the hardwood floor looked recently polished.

Blinking rapidly, Ethan's eyes darted everywhere, into the kitchen which hadn't even been this clean and bright when he'd first signed his lease, and then down the hallway, where all the pictures were righted on the wall and the doors to the bedrooms were now closed. Cautiously, Ethan placed down his bag of stuff on the coffee table before he crept down the hall as silently as possible, reaching his bedroom door far quicker than he would have liked.

Ever so slowly, Ethan turned the door knob and opened the door, revealing a room awash in light from the open windows and spotlessly cleaned. Not to mention decorated differently. The bed was bigger and wooden, no longer lopsided, with clean sheets and a comforter on top, as well as a mountain of pillows. His dresser had been replaced with a bureau complete with a large, wide mirror on top, facing the bed, while the mirror on the closet door had been replaced. The curtains hanging in the windows, as well as the pillows and sheets on the bed were all a dark, wine red color.

Overcome with curiosity, Ethan entered the room more, turning on the spot to examine the room in its entirety, his eye catching something shining on his second turn around. Hanging from the mirror above his new dresser was a chain and at the bottom of that chain was a key.

A car key.

Staggering closer, his mind swirling with too many thoughts and questions, Ethan grabbed the key and held it closer to his face before he looked as his reflection, seeing the Not-Him from the night before staring back, arms crossed and a look of superiority on his face. Not-him nodded toward the window behind Ethan, who looked over his shoulder to see it was the one that faced the street where his car was parked. Turning back around, he only saw himself in the mirror now, staring unbelievingly. Key firmly in hand, Ethan moved around his new bed toward the window, looking out to see what his wicked reflection had been hinting at. The first thing he saw on the street was that bright red car.

"No way." Ethan said to himself before quickly racing out of his bedroom and apartment, headed for the street. Less than five minutes later saw him sliding into the driver's seat of convertible, sliding the key into the ignition, identifying them as a pair. Ethan leaned back in the seat, sighing heavily, looking around at the car until his eyes fell on the glove box. Reaching over, he opened it and found a folded packet of papers. Opening them, he saw that the car was in fact a Cadillac Eldorado, 1959 to be exact, and according to the papers in his hand, registered to Ethan Correa. The now jobless young man stared with wide eyes at the piece of paper, expecting it to be some colossal joke. That's when he noticed the red sticky note on the back. Turning the papers over, he peeled off the sticky note and read the message written in his own messy scrawl. A message he didn't remember writing. It was a simple message, just one word.

Trunk.

Exiting the car, Ethan moved around toward the back, key sliding into the slot to unlock the trunk. Taking a deep breath, not knowing what he was going to find in there, Ethan cracked it open, finding the dead, glassy eyes of Mouthpiece staring at him. Shocked, Ethan stumbled and the trunk opened a bit further, revealing the broken and bloody bodies of the thugs who had assailed him the night before. Lying on top of the bodies, spattered with blood, was a map.

Glancing around quickly to make sure no one had seen, Ethan quickly snatched up the paper, his free hand covering his nose from the smell before he slammed the trunk closed again. Taking in several breaths of cleaner air, Ethan stepped away from the car and looked at the map, noting the route drawn out in red marker and ending in a spot marked with a large red X.

Ethan took the hint and got back in the driver's seat, starting the car, the map next to him.

**- IN THE MIRROR -**

The sign in the road read "DEAD END" and showed a half-built bridge beyond. The sun had long set and night reigned. And night in the desert was a hell of a lot colder than one might expect. Ethan had been driving for hours, following the paths marked on the map, wishing he'd at least brought his jacket to combat the cold, though now he simply felt frustrated because he'd been led to the middle of nowhere. Growling in annoyance, Ethan put the car in reverse before backing up and turning around, stopping when his headlights lit up a spot of desert that had shovel sticking perfectly vertical from the ground. Frowning, Ethan reached for the map and realized he was at the spot the map indicated.

The terrified young man stepped out of the car, leaving the headlights on so he could see what he was doing, glancing down the deserted highway to make sure there was no one coming. He approached the shovel and after another look around, wrenched it from the dirt. After staring at it for a few moments, he began to dig, realizing that this was what he came all the way out here for. Whoever was messing with him had led him to the perfect spot to hide the bodies.

Ethan continued to dig until he felt the shovel strike something harder than dirt, the impact reverberating up the shovel and his arms. With a look more commonly found in horror movies, Ethan put the shovel aside and knelt in the dirt, brushing the sand and soil away from whatever his shovel had struck, falling backward on his ass with a startled yell when a skull was revealed.

* * *

_Also, in case it's too confusing, I've split the characters from Teen Wolf and sort of assigned them the roles of the characters from Heroes, but with twists expected of the characters from the former show. Ethan is the Nicki in this story and as I mentioned above, his story is the one I'm going to have the most fun with. Possibly because his is one of the most violent._


End file.
